


Strangelings in Badger's Drift

by clarnicamhalai



Series: Midsomer Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: AKA Hermione needs a break after the war but magic never stays away, Barnaby knows all even when he doesn't know anything yet, F/M, Joyce always says the right thing at the right time accidentally, Troy needs a lady and the newcomer tickles his fancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: Strange things have been happening in the town of Badger’s Drift since the new tenant’s arrival at Hawthorn Cottage. Detective Inspector Gavin Troy has been assigned to find the cause, but what dangerous secrets will surface when a body is found bearing a hideous skull and snake tattoo?





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story circa 2011, and it has sat in the ficarage waiting, and waiting, and waiting, until now. It's time. I have a folder full of HP characters having adventures in Midsomer. I'm sure more will appear here.

By all accounts, the peculiarities began to appear the very same day the young woman in the suit arrived in Badger’s Drift to inspect the old cottage.

It was an uncommonly quiet day in Causton Constabulary, and Detective Inspector Gavin Troy was seated at his desk finishing off some paperwork while his superior, the redoubtable Tom Barnaby, searched through a pile of catalogues with the intention of finding his wife an anniversary gift.

“Any luck, sir?” Troy asked as he completed the final page of an enormous, excessively dull document regarding parking meters.

Barnaby exhaled noisily. “Not yet, Troy, but patience is a virtue.” He lifted the three remaining catalogues. “And they do say that good things come to those who wait.”

“Not so much ‘wait’, sir, as ‘procrastinate’,” Troy retorted, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

Unfortunately, their good-natured banter was interrupted by the shrill ring of a telephone, and Troy, answering promptly, was greeted by the nasally voice of Virginia Hauser, an elderly woman living in Badger’s Drift who called at least twice a month to complain about 'youths' and the downward spiral modernity was causing her beloved countryside.

As far as Troy could tell, since the woman had a tendency to ramble and digress from the topic at hand, she was reporting at length on a flurry of strange activities down in the village, most specifically at the newly occupied Hawthorn Cottage. He thanked her for the information, and after ten more minutes eventually succeeded in getting her to hang up, before turning to an expectant Barnaby.

“That was Mrs Hauser again,” he explained. “She said something about ‘strange activities’ in Badger’s Drift.”

“Well, you might as well pop by,” Barnaby prompted, rejecting the first of the trinket magazines and selecting another.

“But, sir,” Troy complained, “she’s always phoning us about the most mundane things – you can’t even put a charge to most of them!”

“Come now, Troy,” Barnaby said with a smile. “Enjoy the fresh air for a while; take a nice drive through the country.”

The young Detective Inspector sighed in defeat, much to Barnaby’s amusement, and prepared to meet the dreadful Mrs Hauser, digging out the keys to his car as he made his way out of the offices and into the bright daylight.

As he pulled up in front of the old woman’s cottage, he was unsurprised to find her hovering at the wooden gate that opened onto her perfectly maintained garden.

“Ah, Sergeant,” she began, much to Troy’s irritation. She always downgraded his rank. He suspected that it was mostly because of his age and was therefore, in her eyes, not senior enough to hold the position of Detective Inspector, but it still rankled. “You’re here, finally.”

“Yes, marm,” he said with forced politeness. “And it’s Detective Inspector. What can I do for you?”

She pointed a wrinkly hand at one of the cottages across the way. “There’s new blood in town. Young lass, unmarried, and she’s been acting very strangely, if you ask me. I ‘eard screams last night, and Marge tells me she’s seen a mighty unusual fox running about the place early of a morning.”

Troy, feeling that the woman was picking on the new girl, gamely hedged: “That doesn’t sound as if there’s a particular problem, Mrs Hauser.”

“I don’t care for a lost ‘un every now and then,” she allowed, “but foxes mustn’t be running through the streets, thieving from bins and causing strife. And if she’s feeding the buggers, then that’s what’ll happen, you mark my words, and I won’t have it!”

Mrs Hauser transferred her outstretched hand to the gate, waspishly adding: “And I can’t abide noisy neighbours. That’s disturbing the peace, that is!”

“Alright, Mrs Hauser,” Troy conceded, aiming to prevent a tirade. “I’ll have a talk with her, and see what’s to be done.”

“That’s a good boy,” Mrs Hauser praised, nodding to herself. He smiled civilly at her, but looked skyward for strength once she’d disappeared up the meticulously kept path and into her house before deciding that he might as well knock on the cottage door, if only to make the woman’s acquaintance. Besides, Mrs Hauser was probably watching him through the gap in the curtains.

Troy crossed the road and observed the quaint little home with its thatched roof, ivy-covered walls and carpet of wild hemlock and asphodel, carefully making his way along the stepping stones to the front door where a wooden plaque read simply: _Hawthorn Cottage_.

Grasping the knocker, Troy rapped it thrice and waited.

There was movement inside – a strange scrabbling sound, like the scratch of animal claws on timber – and then a definitive silence before the door opened to reveal a curly haired brunette with wide brown eyes and a serious expression.

“Yes?” she snapped tersely.

Troy didn’t bristle at the hostile reception, well used to it by now.

“Detective Inspector Troy of the Causton CID,” he introduced himself, flashing his identification. The woman’s demeanour changed rapidly.

“Oh, goodness – I’m so sorry; I thought you were somebody else,” she apologised immediately. “You must think me terribly rude! What can I do for you?”

She seemed cooperative enough, first impressions aside, so Troy had no compulsion in telling her apologetically: “Actually, I’m here following up on a disturbance complaint from one of your neighbours.”

“Oh?” she replied guardedly, her expression growing closed.

“Yes, she said that she heard screaming coming from your cottage the other night,” he explained with a frown. “I don’t suppose you could enlighten me on the matter?”

“Ah! It must have been on Sunday. I was watching some horror movies with a friend from school who was visiting over the weekend. I’m not very good with scary films, you see,” she confessed, sounding a smidgen unsure. “So I’m sorry to say there was quite a bit of screaming going on between the two of us – but I’ll make an effort to keep the noise down from now on.”

Hovering in the doorway, she then offered: “Would you like some tea – to make up for my appalling first impression?”

Troy’s stomach rumbled, as if on cue, and he replied with a smile, “That sounds lovely.”

She laughed. “Come through, we can take it out back. The weather’s too nice to be sat inside.”

He complied, and was led through handful of cosy rooms, their walls plastered with photo frames. Most displayed his host beside a male duo: one of the boys was gangly and ginger, the other scruffy and bespectacled, but both shared her strangely vivacious expression.

They were exceptional photos, too, some of them looking almost as if they could come to life **.** In fact, at one point, except for the fact that it was impossible, Troy could have sworn he saw one of them move. He was sure that the ginger boy had lifted a hand to scratch his nose, but when he glanced back he realised it must have been a trick of the light.

He was left to browse the garden while she prepared a spread and brewed the tea, and Troy was surprised to find the backyard at least as perfectly manicured as Mrs Hauser’s own prized plot, prompting him to comment when Hermione returned, “Are you a keen botanist, then, Miss Granger?”

“Hmm?” she replied distractedly, pouring the tea. “Oh, not particularly; I have a friend, though, who just adores plants and it’s quite impossible to _not_ pick up on _something_ of his methods. Cake?” she proffered the plate. Troy selected a slice of a delicious looking marble cake as she settled into the chair opposite, choosing a triangle of cucumber sandwich for herself.

“What brings you to Badger’s Drift, if you don’t mind me asking?” he inquired.

“Oh, a number of things really,” she responded easily enough, but there was an undertone of sorrow to her words as she added, “Including, but not restricted to: family tragedy, a need for change and a desire for a fresh start.” An odd expression graced her features though she remained staring at her tea, and she sighed. “I just needed to get away from everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Troy felt obliged to say, but she merely smiled and retorted quietly: “It’s not your fault.”

The topic moved swiftly on from there, the question had obviously brought painful memories to the surface, and in the half hour that followed Troy found out a number of interesting titbits about the girl.

She was twenty-one, possessed of a brilliant mind, and keen for intelligent debates (that had been a practical discovery). Originally from London, she had attended school elsewhere and preferred poetry and biographies to fiction. Her favourite poem was _The Girl Who Married the Reindeer_ because – she told him with a cheeky, indulgent smile – it reminded her of her best friend and his family. Troy didn’t understand, and voiced as much, but she didn’t bother to enlighten him on the matter so he let it slide; he wasn’t big on poetry anyway.

Eventually, time dictated the end of their chat, and Troy, after checking his watch, said with no little disappointment, “I should probably be heading back to Causton. Thank you so much for the tea.”

“Not at all,” Hermione declared happily. “It was nice to have some company; I still don’t know many people in town – as of yet, anyway.”

“Maybe I’ll see you about the place,” Troy responded.

“Maybe,” she agreed lightly. “Do feel free to drop by if you’re ever in the area.”

“Will do, Miss Granger,” he said with a genuine smile as she led him to the front door. She saw him off, waving as he drove away, and Troy never saw the indentations on the blanket of asphodel and wild hemlock. Carved into the wild flora were patterns, decorative and peculiar, only now visible in the shadows of the lowering sun.

Hermione frowned as she closed the front door. The policeman, DI Troy, had been very kind, and genuinely good company – the kind she’d often wished Ron to be in the few years they’d been together – but his arrival on her doorstep had been a wake-up call nonetheless. She had thought her night terrors were finally dwindling, the screaming and struggling that her family and friends described since the end of the war abating as distance was put between the horrors of Recent Events, but apparently that was no longer the case.

Hermione sighed. She really couldn’t have her neighbours complaining about her, it’d defeat the whole purpose of living in a muggle neighbourhood; she’d have to put up a few silencing charms on top of the defensive wards already in place.

The trip back into Causton was quick and uneventful, and Troy entered the station oblivious to the smile on his face until Barnaby commented idly, “Ah, Troy, I see the expedition wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

“Sir?”

“You’re smiling like the proverbial cat that got the cream,” his superior replied jovially from his desk. “Now, what’s the story behind Mrs Hauser’s current distress?”

“Nothing – as usual,” Troy answered cynically. “But I did meet the new tenant of Hawthorn Cottage. She explained everything well enough.”

“She?” Barnaby inquired.

Troy coughed. “A Miss Hermione Granger, sir. She had a friend visiting on the weekend and there was a bit of noise, but she promised to keep it down from now on. She’s a Londoner; said she was looking for a change of scenery.”

“Indeed?” Barnaby said, raising an eyebrow as he released his customary exhalation.


	2. ii.

A call came through at seven-fifteen a few days later, informing Troy of a murder at Badger’s Drift, and for once Troy felt a sick with apprehension as the location was read out. It was the meadow directly behind _Hawthorn Cottage_. Fearing the worst for Hermione, he was a little distracted as he met Barnaby in Causton; the older man, however, was perceptive of his distress and enlightened him a little on the matter: “It isn’t Miss Granger – no fear, Troy. It’s a male; mid-forties.”

After the short drive, they arrived to a bustling crime scene, the local police having set up perimeters before a growing crowd of curious citizens. In the middle of it all, Doctor Bullard stood in his characteristic blue cover-all suit, a somewhat perplexed expression set on his face.

“Morning, Barnaby; Troy,” the forensic expert greeted, waving them over; ducking under the police tape, the pair dodged a crime scene photographer and briskly crossed the space. “He’s over here.”

“Any theories yet on the cause of death, George?” Barnaby asked as they were led towards the body.

The pathologist shook his head. “None; there are no physical injuries – at least, not recent ones - so it stays a mystery at the moment. Hopefully I’ll be able to find out more when I get him back to the laboratory.”

The man was sprawled on his back, eyes wide and unseeing, with no sign of trauma, and he wore a bizarre collection of clothes, very old fashioned in style, but other than that, there was nothing visibly amiss. He had no identification on him, and the only money was of unfamiliar origin. On his arm was a foul black tattoo that Barnaby had Troy note down as potentially gang-related.

Catching sight of Hermione hovering at the edge of the police tape, Troy had a quick word with the older man before hastily making his way over. She looked nervous, her eyes flicking intermittently towards the body, but she took a fortifying breath as he approached.

 “Detective Inspector,” she said by way of salutation. In her hand was held loosely a peculiarly smooth wooden stick. “Not the most pleasant of situations to meet again.”

He grimaced. “I am sorry, Miss Granger, but would you stay to talk with us?”

“Certainly,” she accepted his request graciously: “Anything to help with the investigation.”

In fact, Hermione thought as she said the words, there was probably nothing that she’d ever wanted to do less this side of the war. She’d recognised the face of the dead man immediately; the cruel blue eyes, high cheekbones and short hair taking her all the way back to her fifth year, in the Department of Mysteries. Her hand moved involuntarily to the scar that reached from breast bone to navel, and she sighed in guilty relief: Antonin Dolohov was finally dead.

The only problem now was identifying his killer. She’d have to contact Harry and Ron as soon as possible. Carefully, when Troy turned away, she returned her wand to the holster inside her sleeve.

After a further ten minutes of discussion with various police officers and Doctor Bullard, Barnaby presented himself to Hermione.

“Pleasure,” she replied, shaking his proffered hand. “Would you like to come inside?”

For the second time in as many days, Troy entered her cottage and followed her into the lounge, Barnaby at his back. He allowed Barnaby to take the seat, knowing that he’d have some questions to ask of the young woman, and instead wandered around the room, looking at the objects that decorated the walls and shelves.

He glossed over the photos and turned instead to the mantelpiece. It wasn’t cluttered like most of the mantles Tory had seen; a long, shallow box filled with a bright green powder took up most of the space, and further to the left perched a steel plaque engraved with two columns of names below an epitaph. A single candle, a small tea-light, burned in front of it.

_To save your world you asked this man to die:_  
Would this man, could he see you now, ask why?   
– W. H. Auden

Troy glanced curiously at Hermione, wondering over the strangely humbling plaque that clearly referenced war dead, if he read the epitaph correctly. Slowly, he moved on to the bookshelf, where an enormous collection of books (with some of the most boring titles Troy had ever seen: _Anthology of Differential Equations & Numerics_) sat on partitions that strained under the weight.

There were a few contraptions that Troy couldn’t fathom; he picked up a gold sphere with two hoops spinning around it.

“Please be careful with that, Detective Inspector!” Hermione requested a little anxiously. “It’s very precious.”

“Sorry,” Troy apologised, carefully replacing it on the shelf. Barnaby watched the exchange neutrally, before beginning his questioning.

“I have to ask, Miss Granger, whether you saw any unusual behaviour last night; or if you heard anything out of the ordinary that might help us with our investigation?”

“It was a completely average night,” she remembered to him. “I can’t think of anything that wasn’t as normal.”

“No vehicles or visitors during the day?”

“No,” she replied. “In fact, it was rather more quiet than usual, I would say.”

“Have you ever seen the victim before?”

“No, never,” she answered. Subconsciously, her hand moved once more to stroke the scarred flesh Dolohov had irreversibly damaged so many years before. Barnaby, however, quietly noted the movement.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite; a big man like him, with that awful tattoo.” She shuddered. “I think I’d remember if we’d ever crossed paths.”

“It wasn’t a very nice tattoo, was it?” Barnaby agreed. “But I wouldn’t call it awful. No more than any other that I’ve seen.”

She seemed a little caught out at that remark, and Barnaby once again felt that she wasn’t exactly telling the truth as she revised: “Oh, I – um – I don’t much like tattoos in the first place, you see, and it looked dreadfully cultish.”

“Cultish? Have you seen it before – in London, perhaps?”

“I couldn’t say for sure,” Hermione replied carefully, “but I don’t think so. It had an unfriendly vibe, is all I meant. Surely no happy person would choose that image to be permanently branded into their skin.”

Following a short pause, Barnaby opted for a change of tack. “What is it you do, Miss Granger, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, not at all,” she permitted, sounding grateful for the topic change. “I’m a physicist; theoretical physics.”

“Is that what these are to do with?” Troy asked from near the shelves, gesturing to the bizarre collection of trinkets.

“In a way,” Hermione confirmed. “Some of them are gifts, but a few I’ve been working on myself.”

“What do they do?” Troy pried unintentionally, his curiosity getting the better of him. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure them out.

“It’s rather difficult to explain,” she told him. “But maybe I can show you the finished product one day.”

“I’d like that, Miss Granger.”

She beamed at him.

Barnaby coughed. “Do you mind if I take a look outside?”

“Not at all.”

She led the Detective Chief Inspector to the back door, out to where she and Troy had taken tea earlier in the week.

“Do you have hedgehogs in your garden, Miss Granger?” Barnaby asked her from near the fence.

“I didn’t think so,” she replied. “Why?”

“There are some markings that look as if a hedgehog family might have moved in,” he said with a smile, gesturing towards the wild daisies that were growing beside the path. “You should leave some milk out for them; they like that.”

“That’s an idea,” Hermione said. She wouldn’t; the scratches were made by Knarls (and she didn’t want her garden destroyed).

+++

“Any luck?” Barnaby asked Doctor Bullard as he joined the doctor in the forensics lab several days later.

The good doctor shook his head disbelievingly. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing in his bloodstream; no internal or external wounds that I can find; no trauma; nothing from the numerous test results; nothing at all! It’s as if he just… stopped living.”

 “Not a heart attack?” Barnaby enquired.

“Not so far as I can tell.”

“How very odd,” the Chief Inspector mused, staring at the body laid out on the slab. “And we’re no closer to identifying the poor bugger, either. There were no papers, no identification, no money and no wallet.”

“It’s a mystery if I’ve ever seen one,” Bullard noted with no little frustration. He’d never before been unable to explain a cause of death.

“I’m worried, too, about the new tenant at _Hawthorn Cottage_ ,” Barnaby said with a sigh.

“That was the house leading onto the crime scene, wasn’t it?” Bullard queried. Barnaby hummed in acknowledgement. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

“She’s a young lass – can’t be more than twenty-one – and Troy seems to be quite taken with her. Not that I can blame him, of course. She has a brilliant mind and a rather pretty face. The trouble is: I’m almost certain that she’s lying to us when it comes to the victim; it seems to me that she did know him, and I think she recognises the tattoo as well.”

“Actually, that is something I’d like to point out,” Bullard commented, coming to show the ugly tattoo to Barnaby in closer detail.

“See here,” he gestured to the inky black image, “it looks like a regular tattoo. But if you hold a light near it,” he raised a tiny torchlight, and tilted the arm. The image, instead of remaining two dimensional, showed through the flesh as a shadowy block reaching all the way to the bone. “I’m sure that if we were to open up his arm, the bone would be black,” he told Barnaby gravely. “I have no idea of the kind of equipment that could do that.”

Both men stared uneasily at the formidable black skull and the snake forcing its way out of the mouth.

“Sir?” Troy’s voice interrupted their thoughts as he appeared in the doorway. “There are two men here to see you; they won’t take no for an answer.”

“Any idea of who they are?” Barnaby asked. Troy shrugged.

“They say they’re coppers from London, sir. They reckon they’ve had similar cases to this one.”

“Well, show them to the office, then,” Barnaby instructed. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Within five minutes, the Chief Inspector was being introduced to a pair of young men, one of whom bore round glasses on a set of rather weary green eyes, the other a self-important expression. Surprisingly, it was the former holding power, as Barnaby saw when a swift look silenced the pompous fellow’s borderline rude remark about the rural county life.

“Inspector Harry Potter,” the bespectacled fellow offered in reply, displaying an identification card, “and this, here, is my colleague, Inspector Zach Smith, of the City of London Police. We’ve been notified of a suspicious death that’s being investigated by your department.”

“So I understand,” Barnaby acknowledged, gesturing for the pair to take a seat on the other side of his desk while Troy, meanwhile, gazed at the green eyed Inspector curiously, his brow furrowed as he tried to pinpoint the man’s familiarity. “And any collaboration is to be welcomed, of course.”

“According to our own ongoing investigation, it’s the work of a serial killer,” the man called Potter explained readily. “As to their identity, we have suspicions, but no clear evidence. Up until now, we’d suspected that the killer was following a structured plan; however, this location is somewhat out of the ordinary. All the other murders – three in total – have occurred in major cities; twice in London, and once in Glasgow.”

“Is there anything that links the victims?” Barnaby questioned.

Potter looked troubled over how to explain it, but pushed on: “They were part of a gang, identified by the skull and snake on their forearms. That’s why we were despatched out here so readily; there really isn’t any doubt at all over the connection between the four murders.”

There was a rapid discussion following these individual revelations, and the four policemen actively offered their own thoughts, though Inspector Smith was strangely reluctant in using some of the terminology. By the end, almost two hours later, the collaboration had been agreed upon and all the details of the previous three murders explained and laid out in an attempt to bring everybody onto the same page.

“Excellent,” Potter responded decisively once all the figurative cards had been placed on the table. “Well, if that’s all the questions for now, we’ll establish ourselves at one of the locals; I gather rooms shouldn’t be too hard to wrangle at this time of year?” The two London officers stood, both ready to leave, when Troy finally reached the epiphany that had been hovering over him since their arrival.

“Hold on,” he exclaimed suddenly in recognition, pointing at the dark-haired man, “I _do_ know you – you’re one of the fellows from Hermione’s photos!”

“You know Hermione?” Potter blurted, dumbstruck, as Smith’s head moved sharply to stare at the enlightened Detective Inspector. “She’s living _here_?”

“Hermione Granger,” Troy confirmed. “The victim was found in the field behind her house.”

The Causton locals watched as the two new arrivals shared an exceedingly weighted, meaningful look, and the blond Smith nodded almost imperceptibly before excusing himself, leaving his colleague to converse privately with Troy and Barnaby.

“If you don’t mind,” Potter said quietly, but firmly, “I’d appreciate it if one of you could direct me to the original crime scene. And I’d like to talk privately with Hermione, as well. You said that the body was found outside her home?”

Troy gave Barnaby a cursory glance but the older man merely nodded and said: “Yes, the field behind. Troy will happily take you into Badger’s Drift, Inspector Potter. He knows where to find Miss Granger.”

“Much obliged,” Potter stated, and Troy felt peculiarly as if the two men were aware of something far more important than the subject at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Auden extract is the ‘Epitaph for the Unknown Soldier’. In this story, Hermione had it made to commemorate the sacrifice of her family, friends and comrades, to remind her of what it was they died for, and to make sure they didn’t give their lives in vain.


	3. iii.

The drive to Badger’s Drift had never felt longer to Troy; the car was filled by a heavy silence that Potter seemed disinclined to break, and Troy had no idea how to breech, so when they finally pulled up in front of _Hawthorn Cottage_ he was immensely relieved to find Hermione collecting some kind of herb from the plot in her front garden.

She looked up as the car came to a stop, and waved, smiling at Troy. The moment she recognised his passenger, however, her face paled.

“Hello, Hermione,” Potter greeted softly, approaching cautiously, as one would a wild animal. Troy wondered what had happened between them to place such hesitation between friends as close as they had seemed in the photos. “How are you?”

“Harry... What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been assigned to the murder case,” he explained meaningfully. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened to shape a perfect ‘o’. “Inspector Smith and I will be working with Causton Constabulary for its duration.”

There was a tense moment where both young outsiders shared a silent conversation, before Hermione finally broke the spell.

“I don’t suppose, Detective Inspector,” she hedged to Troy, “that you would mind terribly if Harry and I had a private word, would you?”

“Not at all,” he granted.

She dragged Potter bodily toward the side of the house, standing so Troy could still see her back, but so neither her nor Potter’s face was visible; their words were equally indistinguishable, though Hermione looked as though she were restraining herself from gesturing wildly (so far as Troy could tell, staring at her shoulders).

At one point, Potter looked over her shoulder to gaze at Troy, cocking his head to his side and commenting on some aspect that caused Hermione to slap his arm, but also sneak a quick, almost embarrassed, glance at the detective, before hauling her old friend back to the gate.

“Everything sorted, then?” Troy asked her as they returned.

“Perfectly,” she confirmed with a smile. “Harry and I were going to take tea, would you like to join us?”

“No, thank you,” Troy declined politely, thinking he should probably head back to Causton to confer with Barnaby about any new developments with the case as it stood. “I’d best be going actually.”

“Oh, alright then,” Hermione said, sounding a little disappointed. He gave her a funny little salute and climbed into the car, glancing into the rear view mirror as he pulled away; she was wiping a hand along her forehead wearily, but Harry wrapped her up in a hug, inaudible words that looked remarkably like ‘I’m sorry’ falling from his lips.

+++

“You should have told us, Hermione,” Harry said from his place on the lounge. Hermione stood by the mantelpiece, drink in hand.

“I needed time, Harry,” she explained. “Time away from everyone and everything; and telling you is like telling the Weasleys, which, though I love them to pieces, wasn’t something I felt up to dealing with at the time.”

“So you disappeared, saying you were going to Australia,” Harry retorted sadly. “You didn’t have to lie, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands.

“I know; so am I.”

“I did go to Australia though. I spent six months there with Mum and Dad before coming back here.”

Harry sighed. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Dolohov was always dangerous and he had a creepy obsession with you, ever since-” He was unable to say it, the loss of Sirius still painful after so many years, but Hermione knew he meant the Department of Mysteries. The green eyed youth shook his head, as if to clear it, before continuing: “In some ways, we’re kind of indebted to this vigilante, whoever it is.”

“Have you any ideas?” Hermione questioned. “Any links at all?”

Harry sighed. “Nothing substantial.”

“Can you tell me anything about it?”

“Not according to protocol,” Harry announced carefully and then smiled slyly, “but that’s never stopped me before.”

Hermione matched his grin and shook her head fondly. “You really shouldn’t, Harry, if you’re not meant to speak about it to civilians.”

“You’re hardly a civilian,” he scoffed. “Besides, do you know how many guys we’ve caught thanks to your help? It’s like taking advice from an expert, and that’s perfectly legal.”

“Oh, fine,” she laughed. “Tell me about everything, from the beginning.”

In the two hours that followed, Harry explained that he, Zach and a large majority of the Auror department had been notified of a violent killing in Knockturn Alley almost six months earlier. Surprisingly, the victim had been Rabastan Lestrange, a Death Eater on the run since the war’s end, and was accompanied by a bloody message that read: ‘The first of all free Death Eaters’.

He explained how the he and Zacharias had already planned on coming to Midsomer after a sighting of Dolohov had been reported in the county, but the sniper had already dealt with him by the time they were due to arrive.

“So why are you working with the muggles?” Hermione asked at the end of Harry’s account. “Why not just Obliviate and have done with it?”

“We can’t,” Harry admitted. “It’s too difficult with all the networks the computers are producing. A single crime can be reported to all Constabularies within minutes and the systems are too complicated to deceive convincingly. Instead, we either have to let it go cold-case in the muggle system or work alongside them, simultaneously meeting magical and muggle requirements of the law.”

“Right,” Hermione accepted, using her wand to banish the empty sandwich plate into the kitchen. “Were there any reasons for Dolohov to be here?”

Harry looked over at her uneasily. “We didn’t think so initially. But now I know you’re here everything’s become a heck of a lot clearer.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the murders have also happened in the vicinity of prominent war veterans,” Harry offered tentatively. “It seems likely that the unapprehended Death Eaters are targeting members of the Light, but our vigilante is picking them off before the deeds can be done. And, as much as we’d like to celebrate the fact that Lestrange is out of action for ever, the murderer is really not stable when you see the damage he’s inflicting on some of them – and all while they’re alive. A few have been so badly mutilated we had to use special charms to identify the bodies.”

A sick feeling overtook Hermione’s stomach as she considered Harry’s words. Dolohov had been out to get her, and had he caught her – she shook her head. It didn’t bear thinking about. He was not a nice man, and she could recall the look in his icy blue eyes that night in the Department of Mysteries. It had promised many things, none of them particularly pleasant.

“But Dolohov was so,” she paused, thinking how to phrase her question, “cleanly disposed of… he was dealt the Killing Curse. Why would the murderer focus on the suffering of some more than others? I mean, they’re all Death Eaters.”

“I assume it’s a personal vendetta with those particular incidents,” Harry said, “working on the basis that our killer is a victim of Death Eater brutality, either directly or indirectly. Merlin knows a lot of young people lost family members in the war, and torture was almost a daily routine.”

“I really don’t know what possessed you to go into this profession, Harry,” Hermione professed after a moment. “How do you stand it?”

“Well, they say stick to what you know,” he answered, running a hand through his scruffy black hair.

There was a significant pause, after which she asked: “How’s Ron?”

Harry smiled sadly. There was still a lot of disappointment surrounding the severance of romantic entanglements between Ron and Hermione, mostly on the part of the Weasleys and their other close friends, but Hermione was adamant that it wouldn’t have worked between them. Even Ron, if pushed, had to agree – they fought too often for a truly good relationship to blossom like the one between Harry and Ginny. “He’s alright; working up in Scotland at the moment on another case. He’s got a new girlfriend, too.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione replied with genuine good humour, directing the tea pot to refill their tea cups. “Anybody I know?”

“I shouldn’t think so – she’s an Italian witch, a year or two above us at Beauxbatons. Letizia Marconi – really nice girl. They’ve been talking about having a baby actually, because, well,” Harry paused, wetting his lips as though he were bracing himself to speak the words, “Ginny’s pregnant.”

Hermione very nearly dropped her wand mid-spell **.** “She’s _pregnant_?”

“Five months,” Harry confessed.

“Wow,” Hermione said, unable to formulate any other coherent words. “I mean – congratulations. That’s wonderful. It’s just hard to believe, is all: Ginny Weasley _pregnant_.”

For some reason it hurt a little to hear. Her two closest friends were preparing to start up families, and though she had no intention of joining them for five years or so at the very least, it felt a little like she was being left behind. She wanted a career before she started seeing picket fences and two point five children anywhere on her life plan, but Harry and Ron, like so many of the war veterans, were ready to start families.

Inexplicably, her thoughts curved around to Detective Inspector Troy. Quickly, she pushed them away.

“Where are you staying?” she asked Harry instead.

+++

Barnaby was sitting in the case room when Troy arrived back in Causton, staring pensively at the board where the photos of the victim and any other pieces of evidence were pinned. Red markers drew connections between them, and Troy saw Hermione’s face staring out of one of the A4 pages.

“Ah, Troy – good drive, was it?” his superior queried pleasantly.

“It was alright, sir; any new developments at this end?”

“Nothing yet,” Barnaby replied. “But tell me, how did Miss Granger react to Inspector Potter’s presence in town?”

“She seemed surprised, but they were happy enough when he explained what was going on. Why?”

“Just an old man’s curiosity,” Barnaby waived the question. “Inspector Smith, however, said something rather unusual after the two of you left. It was a profanity, but not one I’ve ever heard before. Instead of ‘God’ or ‘Jesus’, he used ‘ _Merlin’_.”

Troy cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Merlin? What, like the wizard?”

Barnaby shrugged. “Who knows; but definitely something to ponder, I think.”

+++

Harry pulled out a small two-way mirror from his pocket as they waited at the entrance of the door, ready to leave. “ _Activum_ ,” he said, and the mirror blurred for several seconds before a clear picture of Zacharias Smith was revealed out of the swirling silver mist. “Zach, it’s Harry. Have you sorted the rooms?”

“Yeah, easy. Adjoining rooms above the Red Lion pub in Causton,” came the reply. “Say hi to Granger for me, will you.”

Harry held out the compact and Hermione gave it a little wave. “Hi, Smith.”

“Looking good, Granger. We’ll be keeping an eye out on things here for a while, but I guess Harry’s already told you all that.”

“He has,” she confirmed. “Good luck on the case.”

“Thanks.” He returned to addressing Harry. “Anything else you need done?”

“That’s all, Zach. Thanks. I’ll Apparate to where we arrived this morning,” Harry told him before signing off.

“Keep me up to date?” Hermione asked as Harry prepared to leave.

“Sure,” he replied. “I’ll speak to you soon. And think about telling people you’re home. We miss you.”

“I will,” she promised, accepting his hug warmly. “See you later.”

He exited and she heard him disappear with a soft crack somewhere behind the back fence.


	4. iv.

“I ran into Marjorie Aiken yesterday,” Joyce Barnaby commented idly as she prepared breakfast for herself and her husband. “She was recruiting people for a Bake Sale being held by the pre-school outside Badger’s Drift. I thought I might help out.”

“That’s nice,” Barnaby replied distractedly. 

Joyce frowned. “I also thought I might take a stroll down the High Street in the nude,” she added.

“Wonderful,” he returned, and Joyce rolled her eyes, setting her arms akimbo.

“Tom!” she scolded, startling the Chief Inspector back into the present. “This case really has you preoccupied.”

“I’m sorry for bringing work home with me, Joyce,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right, though: it is the Badgers’ Drift homicide. It doesn’t make any sense. And I’m quite sure the girl hasn’t told us everything.”

“Why do you think that?” Joyce wheedled, depositing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him and joining him at the table.

“She had a look in her eyes when she saw him,” he explained. “I’d have almost said it was a flashback – and some of the things that she’s said make me think that it wasn’t the first time she’s come across him. They’re just little things, of course,” he minded, “but I can’t help but feel that they’re important.”

“What sort of little things?” Joyce asked.

“She took on a very defensive, protective stance when she looked at him, and she seemed familiar with the tattoo on his arm – it looks like a gang signifier, but we’ve only the confirmation of the two Londoners as of yet – and my gut instinct is telling me that she’s lying about not knowing him.”

Joyce sipped her wine. “Well, why don’t you do what you normally do and trust in them?”

“Right now there’re too many holes in the case to make decisions like that,” her husband responded a little unhappily. “And she and Troy are getting along too well for interference without definitive evidence.”

“Troy?” Joyce asked, perking up. “What’s he doing?”

“Falling head-over-heels, though I doubt he realises it yet.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Joyce acclaimed, abandoning her breakfast to give her full attention to the matter. “Is she a nice girl? What’s her name?”

“Hermione Granger,” Barnaby answered. “As far as I can tell, she’s brilliant, very pretty and much politer than we’re used to in these cases. She been very helpful for the most part.”

Joyce smiled, picking up her fork once more and gesturing briefly with it at her husband. “In that case, mind your tongue.”

“It’s been very well behaved so far.”

“Tom,” Joyce scolded, drawing his name out in exasperation. 

“Consider it minded, Joyce – I won’t interfere with Troy’s budding love life unless absolutely necessary.” He checked his watch. “And on that note, I’d best see what our Detective Inspector has for me this morning. He was meeting with our London colleagues. Have a good morning, my dear. I hope the sale is fruitful.”

+++

Hermione had slept fitfully. For part of the night she had given in and transformed into the bushy brown fox, hoping that the animal brain would be able to quieten faster than her human one. It had worked, after a time, but she felt out of sorts nonetheless.

The arrival of Harry and Zacharias Smith in Midsomer made life more complicated and she needed a break to get her head around the current situation. As she sat, drinking her tea, a flyer sticking out from under her latest mail caught her attention; it was brightly decorated, advertising a fête for the local school. Seeing that it was being held that day, Hermione made up her mind to get out of the house. She finished her tea and threw on a cardigan, locked up the house and, with a fortifying breath, set off towards the school.

The school green was crowded with stalls and people, all of them there in aid of charity. Hermione wandered through the stalls with the rest of the visitors, occasionally purchasing a cupcake or homemade item that she needed, like a bag or an apron. Children ran amok, chasing each other through the corridors between the tents, asking their parents for coins to play the games that were being set up on a clear area of grass. A play equipment had been set up at one end, with monkey bars and slides.

The sun had just been smothered by a large, deep grey cloud and Hermione had just made it to a stand with some rather impressive buttercream covered cupcakes that were iced to look like roses when one of the children playing on the monkey bars screamed.

Startled, Hermione turned towards the sound. Amidst the crowd, an impossible face drew her attention before a flash of silver and black in the dappled light behind the closest building caught her eye. Had she been anybody else, she would have dismissed the sight. As it stood, her past overwhelmed her rationality and that brief glimpse was all it took for her mind to transport her back to the war.

Images of burning buildings and screaming children; Death Eaters in silver masks and swirling black cloaks; she caved to the ground, hugging herself tightly as her breathing rapidly increased with panic.

Somebody had knelt beside her, but Hermione was still in Scotland, watching Hogwarts burn and crumble, watching Colin Creevey’s lifeless body fall to the rubble-covered flagstones, blood spilling from his chest as the Knifecut Curse rent his skin open.

“You’re okay; it’s okay,” a woman’s voice said firmly, encouragingly, fighting to be heard over the visions Hermione was fixated on. “You’re fine. Breathe. Slowly now – in, and out. That’s it – in for six, out for four.”

Hermione let the person direct her, the images dissipating slowly from her mind. The buttercream cupcakes of the bake sale came back into view, and Hermione was embarrassed to see a crowd had gathered around her. The lady sitting next her was gently rubbing her back. Hermione sucked in another purposeful breath.

“Are you alright?” The lady asked. 

“I, I think so,” Hermione murmured, mortified at the scene she’d created.

The woman introduced herself. “I’m Joyce.”

“Hermione.”

The lady’s eyebrow rose in surprise and Hermione said with a grimace, “My parents were fond classical literature.”

“You don’t say. Come on, then,” the woman said persuasively. “Let’s get you off the ground. Cully, see if you can find some tea.” This was directed at her younger companion, who bustled off to do as she was bid. Joyce heaved the young witch up and Hermione was walked to a nearby bench and gently settled down on it, still breathing heavily.

“Slow, deep breaths, Hermione,” Joyce repeated. “In for six, out for four. I’ve heard that’s the most calming sequence.”

Slowly but surely Hermione felt equilibrium return. She felt awful. Exhausted. But she was back in the present time and the war was only a memory once again. It had been a long time since she had relapsed so badly; the appearance of Dolohov and subsequently re-immersion into the magical world had unsettled her tremendously.

“How are you feeling, Hermione?” Joyce asked her.

Terrible, was what Hermione wanted to say, but she managed to pull together a smile. “Better, thank you. I’m sorry to have caused such a drama.”

“Don’t even think on it,” Joyce told her as Cully returned with some chamomile tea in a styrofoam cup.

“It’s the best I could do, I’m afraid. But it’s something, at least.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly, grasping the container with both hands and feeling the warmth spread through her fingers and palms.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joyce asked, voice gentle.

Hermione grimaced, still feeling a bit spaced out. “Not especially,” she said without thinking. “Living through the war once was enough; and the flashbacks make me feel wretched.”

The tea was sweeter than she usually liked; Cully had dumped as much sugar into the concoction as she could find, knowing that it would help Hermione perk up. The witch sipped it, relishing the warmth that seemed to grow from the inside out.

+++

Later that evening, Hermione sat in her cosy parlour, and pondered the day’s events. A corner of parchment was held in her hand.

It had been pushed through the letter slot while she was cooking dinner. She hadn’t told Harry yet, or Troy, for that matter.

She flipped it over, checking the reverse, before righting it again and reading the message scrawled in black pen.

_Stop them looking. I will finish it. I am righting the wrongs that they refuse to; I will not be stopped_ , it said. 

Hermione was musing.

She thought she’d seen Colin Creevey.

It was impossible; she had seen his body laid out on the floor of Hogwarts, tiny and still. He had been memorialised, alongside Fred and Professor Lupin and Tonks. But, for a moment, she could have sworn she had been staring into the eyes of her Gryffindor housemate.

Now, with the note to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew exactly who it was.

She’d tutored Dennis Creevey in History of Magic and Potions; she knew his handwriting well. That distinctive ‘s’ was his and no one else’s. He wrote it from the bottom up with a curl that awkwardly brought his hand onto the next letter of a word; she’d tried to correct it, knowing it would slow him down during exams, but he was fixed in his way and wouldn’t budge.

After the war, Dennis, overwrought with grief over the death of his brother, had vanished with his parents in tow. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of the young Gryffindor since the war, and no one had thought to reach out. Most people who left had needed space, and space was what they were given.

Somewhere along the line, while the wizarding world gave him the space they thought he wanted, Dennis had transformed from a timid, sweet boy, to a vigilante killer, tracking down and executing those Death Eaters who were still on the run.

And judging by the note, he clearly felt he was justified.

Hermione was half tempted to leave it be, but if he was dropping vaguely threatening letters through her letterbox something had broken the pattern and he was getting twitchy. He was worried. 

She conjured her Patronus, feeling as though a thousand butterflies had been let loose in her stomach. It roiled, though from excitement or anxiety she couldn’t tell.

“Find Harry,” she instructed the silvery otter. “Tell him: I have a lead.”

+++

Barnaby came home to find Joyce waiting in the front room.

“I met Hermione today,” she said. “I can see why Troy is taken with her.”

“Indeed,” Barnaby agreed, joining her on the sofa. His wife had an air about her that drew his attention. There was more to this than just simple conversation.

“It was such an accident coming across her, but she was having a panic attack and I was right by her, you see, so I stopped to help. And she said her name was Hermione, which caught my attention – I know how much this case is eating at you and I wondered if I might be able to pick up on anything. Woman to woman, sometimes there’s an intuition that men miss.” She said this cheekily, looking up at Barnaby and he was reminded of the early days when she used to rile him up and laugh when he was ruffled by her teasing. He loved her greatly.

“And did you?” Barnaby prompted.

“Perhaps.” Joyce fidgeted her hands as she thought about Hermione’s words earlier that day. “She said ‘living through the war once was enough’ and that flashbacks made her feel wretched. They were her exact words.” 

“Very interesting,” Barnaby said, mulling over the words. War? She was only twenty-one; he would have to make enquiries about her military service. “Did she recover?”

“Oh, yes – she felt better after tea and a little cake – the sweetness did wonders for her. Once her colour came back and her breathing settled she was on her way back home to rest. Cully walked her back to the cottage.”

“Thank you, Joyce. That chat might prove very useful to the investigation.”

“Well, I hope it’s the right thing to do; she didn’t know who I was. I felt like I was lying by not saying I was your wife. She was dreadfully affected by the flashback; it must have been a terrible thing to go through. But I hope it helps.”

“Knowing you as I do, Joyce, it will probably be invaluable.”

She slapped his knee softly. “Oh, shush, Tom. Now, come and help me fix up dinner.”

+++

At the constabulary the next morning, Barnaby called Troy over to his desk. In front of him was a single page with a list of phone numbers; he slid it across to the other man.

“I need you to check all UK military records for Hermione’s name.”

“Sir?” Troy said questioningly. 

“New lead,” Barnaby advised. “I’m particularly looking for active service in a war zone.”

“Yes, sir.” Troy frowned at the list – there were at least fifteen numbers marked on it. Liaising with military was never fun; he was in for a long morning.

+++ 

By two o’clock, Troy had made a significant dent in his work. Largely because there was no record of a Hermione Granger anywhere in the system. Hanging up on the last number, he swivelled to face Barnaby.

“No record of a Hermione Granger on any military database in this country.”

“Hmm,” Barnaby sighed. “Troy, how are you at leading conversation?”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Granger might be more forthcoming in a face to face conversation. It may be more fruitful than trying to extract information from old files buried somewhere beneath miles of military red tape.” 

Troy frowned. It was certainly worth a try, but, knowing Hermione, she would probably see right through him and then where would they be. On the outs with their most likely lead.

“Go on, Troy. Time is of the essence.”

Barnaby waved him off and Troy sighed quietly. “Yes, sir.”

He ran the scenario through his head a million times on the way to Hawthorn Cottage; imagined a dozen different reactions from Hermione and had almost decided on an opening line when he saw her through the front window, expression tense, talking animatedly to Potter and Smith. Smith looked furious.

Troy hadn’t anticipated this scenario.

Pulling off the road, he shut the car door as quietly as possible. It struck him as unusual that Potter and Smith would operate independently of Causton CID, so, on instinct, he cautiously approached the house.

He couldn’t hear a word of the conversation from the stoop, so, making an executive decision, he carefully placed a hand to the doorknob. There was no knowing if it would be locked or not, but with cautious confidence, Troy twisted the knob and was pleased when it quietly clicked open. All of a sudden, the noise was bleeding through the gap.


End file.
